Choices
by swimmingfox
Summary: Kings Landing AU. When Sansa is told by Joffrey that she has to marry Tyrion, she can think of only one person to help her... Their journey goes in an unexpected direction, taking in kidnapping, sorcery, storms and a Free City.
1. Chapter 1

**This story uses the San/San mixed-POV format of my previous two stories, but combined into one! I'm going to age up Sansa to a healthy 17 in this one. It's a mix of GoT and ASOIAF canon. All characters/settings are the property of GRRM.**

Sansa was running. Her heart was a trapped feathered thing in her chest, and she was streaking down a long corridor lit with caged candles, which threw up figures as big as shadow cats on the walls. But there were real things to fear. Shouts were not far behind her, bouncing off the stone, mingled with the thudding of boots and scraping of swords. She found the door she'd been looking for, and shoved it open.

***S*S*S*S*S*S**

I'm on my bed, half-stricken with a blasted fever, looking at one of my damned boots. Heel's come all adrift, from the scuffle in the slum riot. That's all my fucking job is these days, keeping famine-crazed peasants from tearing up the boy. Maybe one of these days I should just let them have him, watch them rip him limb from limb, eat him all up. That – and keeping an eye on the bird of course. The reason I'm still here and not in some sun-blasted isle with the salt making my hair stiff. I couldn't leave, and leave her here with him, not after the way he's got. He's got a taste for the darker things – as dark-twisted as my brother, maybe even moreso, and who'd have thought _that_ were possible. But it's getting harder to watch after her, there's no doubt. Even though he's got a new queen, he's got the bird as his fucking plaything, a lazy cat toying with a mouse, just pawing at it enough so it can't run off. It pains me, to watch her taking it, and part of me wishes she'd just let go, scream and claw his eyes out, though I know that that would be the end of –

The door slams open, and suddenly she's there, eyes as wide as a Dornish sky, and she's falling on it, her hands behind her, staring at me, her chest heaving. I say _what the hells are you doing bird_? and she says _hiding_ and just stands there, looking at me, as wired as anything. _Please_ she says and her voice is like a damned little pain in my gut and I say _get under here then, quick girl_. And she moves, fast as a spider, and scuttles under the bed, covers long enough to conceal her, just as I hear the clump of boots coming down the corridor, a sound like distant cannon going crazy.

A thundering at the door. _What_? I say, still on the bed, and it flings open, and Ser Boros there, his fat bullface steaming. _Have you seen her_? he says and I say _who_ and he says _the Stark cunt who do you fucking think_ and I say _not since the midday feast I haven't_ and I say _where's she gone_? He screws his eyes at me as if I'm an idiot and says _if I knew I wouldn't be here would I_ and he says _she's gone running from the king, fat lot of good that'll do her, silly bitch_. _Ay, that she is_ I say, not moving. Goldcloaks fly past behind him and he looks round at them and back at me and says _aren't you coming then_? and I say _ay alright Boros, keep your fucking scalp on, I'll be along once I find a new boot I can stand up in_ and I hold it up at him. He scowls at me and is off.

I get up and shut the door. It's dead quiet. She can't be moving a muscle. Maybe I dreamt it and I'll look under there and there'll be nothing but a heap of dust. I've dreamt of it enough times, though she doesn't normally end up _under_ my bed, ha.

_There's a dead mouse under here_ says a small voice that's as small as a rodent itself, and I can't help a grin. _Better a dead mouse than a dead Stark I s'pose _I say, and I hear her wriggle a bit and I say _hold off bird, just give it a moment_ and she stops. Partly I'm just enjoying the picture of her curled up under my bed and my mind's half-drifting off to being tucked up there with her and then I say, _alright, out you come_. And she slides out, as graceful as if she's just slid across a ballroom floor, and stands there, her hands folded in front of her. Her face is red and there's a tear streaked on her cheek, a little glitter.

She starts to turn around slightly to look around the room and I can't help laughing. Her back half – her hair, shoulders, the back of her skirts, is caked in dust. _What_? she says, her voice tight, her eyes fidgeting. _You look like you've been sleeping in spiderwebs_ I say. She brings a hand up to the back of her head and looks at her palm. _It's not my fault you don't clean under your bed_, she says, with cheeks looking like they've been slapped. I laugh again and she starts to pat at her skirts. _You shouldn't be here_, I say, more serious, and she says quietly _I know, but –_ and then I hear a voice outside. That gilded, chopped sound that is only one person, and I move quick, push her by the stomach to the wall behind the door and say, dead quiet, _stay there girl_.

**Next chapter is up already!**


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa had lain with the stone pressing coldly into her shoulder blades, the base of her back, the back of her skull. The dust was a finger-width thick. She'd turned her head upwards and to the side just a little to find the petrified little corpse of a mouse, tiny mouth open and arms prone, as if clutching a silk drape. She had bitten her bottom lip hard to stop from shrieking.

After Joffrey had summoned her to court, and as he so often did made her stand there in front of the whole court and recite her crimes, describe her pleasure at seeing her father's head severed from his body, he had held his hand up to stop her. He addressed her as if he were her septon and she a five-year old child who had stolen a cake from the pantry.

'You, my lady, we all know, are the daughter of a traitor. That makes you little better than a whore to me. And now that I have a new queen – ' and he reached out and put his hand on Margaery's knee, and she smiled at him, a smile that didn't quite reach the eyes - 'I cannot see you lurking around my castle with your whore's face, reminding me of your father's treachery. I need to make use of you, and now is the time. The only way you can redeem yourself is to ally what's left of your house with mine. You are to be married to my uncle.'

'But your Grace, Ser Jaime is still a prisoner,' Sansa had begun, before her voice faltered, seeing Joffrey's golden-gleaming features twist into a cruel grin.

'And I pray every day for his safe return,' he had said, raising his voice to ensure that those at the back of the room could hear. 'You are to marry Lord Tyrion, a match you should be on your knees thanking me for.'

He had spoken with such maddeningly feigned insouciance that for a moment Sansa hadn't taken in what he was saying. A murmur had rippled like a low tide around the room, and smirks mixed in with the hands over mouths, and it felt like the sea had risen in her throat. Margaery had put a hand on Joffrey's shoulder and leant over to whisper in his ear, a look of concern on her face.

'And what if – I don't want to?' Her voice had trailed away.

'What, pray, my lady?' Joffrey had made a play of cocking his head to the side to better hear what he had heard perfectly well. 'Well, go on.' He had gestured with his hand. 'Speak up.'

Sansa had already said too much, she knew it. But something in her had broken, a tiny, filigree thread that had been holding her together for so long snapping in two. She raised her head, ignoring the flash of warning in Margaery's eyes.

'What if I don't want to, your Grace?' she said, the last words shot through with the faintest trace of sarcasm.

He looked at her, hardly believing she'd dared. Then his face became as smooth as a glazed pot, and he appeared almost bored. 'If you don't, I'll have your head, and I'll send it to your mother on a serving plate.'

Sansa had blinked away a tear, turned heel, and run.

She had only realised as she had turned towards the White Tower where her instincts were leading her. To the only place she dared go within the castle walls: the Hound's chamber. He hadn't been in court, apparently laid low with an ague, and she had prayed and prayed that he would be in there.

He was the only one she trusted, apart from Shae. Margery seemed concerned for her, and would tuck her arm in her elbow and stroll among the gardens with her, but she didn't feel that anyone who could bring herself to marry Joffrey, for whatever political or personal gain, could be fully trusted.

The Hound was hardly a pillar of comfort. He was still never openly kind, but she knew he looked out for her when he could, and had somehow managed to persuade Joffrey that she hadn't needed to be publically struck on a regular basis. And that night, during the battle, with the green fire of the seven hells coming in from the sea, he'd come, and said he'd take her away with him, and she'd said no.

She'd said no, because she felt sure that Stannis would win and protect her, and because the Hound was drunk, slaked in blood and terrifying the wits out of her. She'd made him furious at that, but then he'd looked at her queerly, said he'd never hurt her, and lurched away. And then – he hadn't left. She'd almost gasped when she'd seen him two days later, his face a mess of new scars, and he'd avoided her gaze for a week. She turned it over in her mind, wondered again and again if he'd not left because of her, or whether the notion of abandoning his king and being labelled a turncoat and a traitor had seemed less attractive once he'd sobered up.

She realised, lying under his bed, that it was the first time she'd seen him without his armour. He'd been sitting there holding one of his boots, in his mailshirt and breeches, and looked completely startled to see her fly into his room. But he'd regained his composure, and as she listened to him speaking offhandedly to Ser Boros, unruffled as anything, she knew she'd done the right thing.

She'd come out and he'd laughed at her covered in dust, and she'd beaten at her skirts, embarrassed and not a little furious, and suddenly his hand was on her stomach, pushing her backwards with some force until she all but slammed into the wall. She was about to protest when she heard what he had heard. A voice, in the corridor. Joffrey.

***S*S*S*S*S*S**

I make sure I look as groggy as I can as the boy comes banging on the door, shouting _dog! Dog_! I open it and peer down at him. _Your Grace_? I say, hoping I look like I've just woken up. His eyes are two picks of ice, and he shoves them about the room. _Sansa's run away, that little bitch_, he says. _Ay, well, she can't run far_, I say, putting a hand in my hair. _No, she won't_, he says, glaring at me.

I'm standing there, nodding solemnly, when he says, _well, what are you waiting for dog, go and find her_! I frown a bit. _Of course, your Grace, I say, I've just a broken boot to take care – I don't care if you have to go with your fucking toes on display, just find her_, he says, brittle as a bit of snapsugar, and I think one day I'm going to wring your fucking neck so tight it'll be nothing but a washrag but I say _yes your Grace_, and he stands there waiting, so I grab my sword and shrug my armour on whilst he's tapping his fingers on the door, and leave with him, shutting the door behind me, Sansa still under there. And I lock it, and pocket the key.

***S*S*S*S*S*S**

Sansa heard the key jolt in the lock, and footsteps fading. He had _locked_ her in. Imprisoned her. It might have been for her own safety, but she was still angry. He'd left her no choice but to stay there, indebted to his action. She let her breathing slow, and looked about her. It was already growing dark, but she could see how bare the room was. There were no books, or flowers in a vase, or anything that would give the room character. There was a small table with a bowl on it, a long oaken box on the floor – she peeked in and found piles of clothes and underthings and quickly shut it again – and two swords in a wooden stand by the wall.

Sansa sat down heavily on his bed, as the implications of Joffrey's words began to seep back in. Tyrion. She couldn't. Couldn't _ever _marry him. He was perhaps the kindest of the household, and she knew he'd played a big hand in the success of Blackwater Bay, no matter what others said about Twyin and the Tyrells saving the day, but – he was dishonest, a schemer, an _imp_. And a Lannister. She would be trapped forever. She would never go back to Winterfell. Sansa fell back on the bed, and wept.

***S*S*S*S*S*S**

I managed to shake the boy after a bit and made a decent enough show of looking for the bird, joining Merys and some of the other guards in sweeping the Keep, the sept, the woods. Tried to shut my ears to the vile shit they were spouting about her, what they'd do to her if they found her nesting up a tree or somesuch. Not fucking likely, I thought, 'cause you'd be wearing your spleens as fucking blindfolds before I let you get near the bird.

Gods, there I go. I can't help it. It's like she's pulled a fine thread off me, keeps giving it a little tug, yanking my thoughts back to protecting her. I think I'm only one – save her maid, and the Imp maybe, who sees that she's doing her damndest to just keep her head out of the water. I try the hells not to, she drives me crazy with her bloody airs and graces, but I can't stop bloody wanting to shield her.

The hunt goes further afield, into Fleabottom and over to the other gates, and I slope back to my chamber. My chest hurts from the ague, head too. I put my ear to the door. Nothing. I come in, and there's no candle and I can't see her. In a whisper I say _Sansa_ and there's no answer and for a moment I think what, she's a sorceress, she's bled herself through the wall and escaped? And then a sigh, light as a damned snowflake. Coming from the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

'Sansa.'

Sansa's eyes fluttered open. The shape of the Hound blotted out what little moonlight there must have been. Her throat was dry.

'Sorry.' She didn't sit up.

He hovered above her, and spoke in a low, quiet voice. 'What the hells are you doing in the dark?'

'You locked me in,' she said in a near-hiss.

She heard him sniff. 'I thought it best.'

He moved towards the window and then across the room again, opening the door. The torches in the corridor fed a dull, flickering glow into the room. He returned holding a lit candle, and placed it in a holder by the bed. His face looked waxen.

'You're unwell,' she said, feeling hollow.

'I'm alright. A bit peaky, nothing I can't stomach.'

The bed squeaked as he sat down at its foot. Sansa knew she should sit up, get up, leave swiftly – she was in the Hound's room, on his _bed_, but – she couldn't.

'You can't stay here,' he said, quite slowly.

She didn't say anything for a while. Her head felt hot and heavy. She was rigid, curled into a ball with her arms wrapped around her. She had no options. There was no way out.

'Joffrey says – I'm to marry – Lord Tyrion.'

There was a long silence. She heard him swallow. 'I'm sorry, little bird.'

Sansa watched the shadows make feathering shapes on the wall. She rolled over onto her back, her knees bent.

'Tell me what to do.'

'I don't have the answers.' He swallowed again. 'I'm just – '

'Just what?'

He made a small noise in his throat. 'I'll just look out for you, no matter what happens.'

'You'll protect me from Tyrion too, you mean?' Her voice was bitter.

There was a long pause, and she felt a hand on her foot, as warm as a blanket. 'Ay.'

The small comfort made her want to break down. He could protect her from real harm, probably, but what was the point in protection if she was trapped in a marriage, had to consummate it, and would never see her family again? She felt the tears come. 'I won't do it.'

'Sansa.' Tonight was the first time he'd ever used her name. 'I don't know what to tell you. I'll – make sure you're not harmed. But for now, I – have to get you back to your room.'

She felt the fear rise in her then. 'He'll probably kill me now anyway. I – answered back to him. In front of everyone.'

'He won't. Not if he's wanting to you use you for an alliance. You're too – important.'

'He'll just hurt me, then.'

'I won't let him. Listen' – he squeezed her foot again, and she sat up and hugged her knees, looking at him. 'Tell him you're sorry, and that you will do as he asks. It's your way to stay alive. If you're lucky, your brother will get to you before there's sign of any wedding.'

She felt a slow pain sink from her throat through her ribs. She knew he was right. He never lied to her. It was – her only choice. One tear rolled down her cheek, and she felt his eyes follow its fall to the side of her mouth. She raised her eyes to him and saw a look she'd never quite seen before, one caught between sadness and – something else.

He stood up suddenly, and held his hand out, almost gallantly. 'Come on.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Gods. The sight of the little bird on my bed is near too much for me. Curled up like a nestling, she makes me want to pick her up and dash off with her into the night. I test how close I can get by sitting near her feet, and she doesn't move a damned jot. But then I find out why – she's been told to marry the fucking Imp.

Anger rises in my throat like bile at that, the thought of her wedded to that cross-eyed slick-tongued bastard. The boy is so fucking low. But no doubt Tywin's had a hand in it too, always smashing families together where they don't mix. And my guts feel cross-stitched at the thought of her just getting more tangled up in this fucking mess, and trying to think how I can help her.

And she's asking me for bloody advice as if I'm going to solve it all, and I think, well gods, Sansa, I did offer you a fucking way out and you threw it back in my face. What more can I do? But I try my best to tell her I'll look out for me, and somehow my hand's on her damned foot – she's taken her boots off - and my heart's bolting like a damned spooked horse. I could just put my hand further up her leg under her skirts, or pull her ankle towards me, and – gods, stop it man. I remember my place, just about.

I'm walking her back to her chambers, and she's a little in front of me, and I look at her neck, like snow on a hillslope, and think, the Imp wouldn't be able to even _see_ that, for gods' sake. And we round the corner, and – fuck. The boy's there. Unguarded, just leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

He pushes himself off with a foot as he sees us. Sansa stops dead, but I push her, a little roughly, in the back, towards him. _I've found her_, I say. _I see that_, he says, his voice lazy. _Where was she? Down in River Row, would you believe_ I say. _Is that so_? he says, grabbing her by the chin to make her look at him, which she does, trembling. _I'm – I'm sorry your Grace_, she stammers, _I – it was a shock, to – hear of your plans, but I realise now that – you are right, you do me a service and an honour by betrothing me to Lord Tyrion_.

Gods, she has a spine made of steel, I swear it. She's looking right at him, and she _is_ terrified, but she knows how to play him too, just enough. He's still got hold of her chin. _You belittled me in court_, he says. _I'm truly sorry_, she says again. He whips his hand away. _What say you, dog_? he says, narrowing his eyes up at me. _Do you think she's sorry enough_?

Hells. I know where this is going. _Ay_, _I reckon she sounds it, just about_, I say, knowing that won't cut it. _Please, your Grace, it was a mistake_, she begins to say, but he leans in to her. _I'm not sure you are_, he says, _but you know well enough I must never strike a woman, even one as traitorous as you, because you're so damned useful_ – and he begins stroking her face and moving his hand down her neck, not giving a shit that I'm right there and I think fuck this and I say, _leave it with me your Grace, I'll see she's punished_ and I grab Sansa by the elbow and move to yank her into her room.

He pulls her other arm. _No_, he says_, this I want to see_. Sansa takes a breath in. He's looking at me like he knows something, but how can he? There's nothing to know. I drop her elbow. He's got me. _There's no need, your Grace_, I say, _I can see to it. No, dog_, he says, _this is my sport. I've not seen you strike her before, you've always left it to Ser Meryn or Ser Boros, for whatever reason I'm not quite clear. So I'll watch you do it now_.

Sansa gives a small whimper. I swallow. I could strangle him right now. I could – _Your Grace_, I say one more time, and he says, like a damned grass snake, _I might not be able to have her head, but I could have yours. Strike her._ And then she turns and looks at me.

Her eyes, those wide, early twilight eyes peel me down to my soul just then. He says, once more, _you'll strike her or Ser Illyn will be polishing his greatsword for you in the morning_. And I'm still looking at her and she gives me the tiniest nod of her head, I swear it. And, with an anger boiling in me that I've never felt before, I raise my hand and I hit her across the face and she falls to the ground, and at that moment her maid comes running round the corner and dashes to her, and the boy looks at me keenly, nods as if approving a wine, and turns heel, and I flee, the other way.

And I punch the wall in my chamber so hard, over and over, until my knuckles bleed, until the skin flays, until you can see bone.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa woke to a lemon-coloured dawn. She turned her head over on the pillow to a throbbing pain at her temple, and remembered. Joffrey. And the Hound, striking her. She let herself fall in truth, hoping that if it looked hard enough Joffrey would have has fill for the night, and thank the gods it worked, otherwise she hadn't known where it would lead. He was the last person that wanted to hit her – in fact, Joffrey usually demanded that she was struck when the Hound was elsewhere, as if knowing he wouldn't approve. He'd done it just to spite him.

She sat up. Shae was sitting by the window, and glanced over. 'My lady.' She moved over, all light and grace, the sunlight shining through the silk folds of her dress. She wet a cloth from a bowl by the bed and leant over her. 'Let me see how it is.'

She pressed the cool cloth to Sansa's cheek. It made her wince.

Shae's jaw steeled, and she was about to speak when there was a gentle knock at the door. She put the cloth down.

The Hound filled the doorway. Shae slapped him hard across the cheek.

'Shae!' said Sansa, sitting upright, startled.

Shae leant up towards the Hound's face. 'How dare you come back here.'

The Hound didn't say a word, glancing past her into the room at Sansa, his hair hanging in front of his face, and when he found her looking back at him, swiftly dropped his eyes to the floor.

'Shae. It's alright,' said Sansa.

'It's not alright,' Shae said to her with a hiss, still glaring viciously up at him. 'You were supposed to be one of the good ones.'

The Hound opened his mouth as if to sigh, but nothing came out. 'Leave us, Shae,' Sansa said, quietly.

Her maid looked at her sharply. 'My _lady_ – '

'Shae, I promise. You can leave us.'

Shae's shoulders dropped violently. 'I'll be right outside. I'm not going further, ' she said as she stormed out of the room, slamming the door.

The Hound looked utterly torn and pale, and he could barely seem to bear to meet Sansa's gaze. She swallowed and got up, walking over and stood in front of him, her head tilted up. He brought his fingers to her jaw, and, incredibly lightly, tipped her face a little to the side. He didn't seem to be breathing, just looking, in a sort of frozen agony, at her cheek.

And then he dropped his hand and spoke in a quiet monotone. 'I should have let him have my head.'

Sansa shook her head. 'No. I'm not going to be responsible for anyone else's head.'

He took in a huge breath and exhaled, a jagged, stuttering thing. 'I'm a craven dog.'

She shook her head again.

'I – there's always another path. I – I said I'd protect you.' He put his fingers up to his eyes, a bloodied bandage around his palm and knuckles.

'What did you do to your hand?'

He froze, looked at the bandage, and hastily dropped his arm. 'It's the least I - ' he looked at her, anguished, then at the wall, closed his eyes – 'fuck – I – I don't know how I can - ' He looked like he might fall apart.

Sansa swallowed, hard. 'You can make it up to me.'

He looked at her from under his eyebrows, a wounded dog, waiting to be hit.

'You asked before, and I was – too scared. And I thought – I might be alright. But I was wrong.' She looked at him with a calm fierceness. 'I'll forgive you if you find a way to get me out of here.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Sleep that night is a rocking boat, hurling me about. All I see is Sansa, crashing to the floor, over and over again. I'd tried not to hit her too hard, make it look worse than it was in my armstroke, but – fuck. My hand is fucked, but I don't let myself tend to it. The pain's so bad I throw up.

I hit her. I let him bid me hit her. I should have fucking put my sword in his eye.

In the morning I pace my room. I can't serve the boy. Can't stand behind him without needing to disembowel him. I have to get the hells away from here, and from her, so that she never has to see me again.

Can't quite go without - I have to see if she's alright.

So I get to her room, part of me wanting to turn tail at every moment. Her maid opens the door and gives me a whack clean across the face, well deserved. I'd sooner Sansa did it though. The bird's on the bed, and bids her maid leave, and she comes to me and there's the early bloom on her face, yellow, like a straw stain, and I know it will get worse. I almost break, to see it. Practically want to gut myself for her there and then. But somehow she's standing straight, trembling like a new leaf but tall, and she says – gods – she says I can have her forgiveness if I get her away.

My chest feels like a boulder's swung at it. She'd go with me, _now_? Hold up. Maybe she doesn't mean that, exactly. I say _get away where_? and she says _anywhere. Away from here_ and she says _I can't do it, I'm not staying_.

I stand and think and say, _we'd have to get you on a boat, most likely. Up North, or maybe over the water, and find you some protectors and all_. And she looks at me and says, _you have to come_ and I look down at her and my heart gives, just a little.

_You don't want me to come Sansa, not after what I've done to you_, I say. And she looks calmer than she's any right to be and says _but you won't do it again will you_? and I think, I'd sooner fall on my own sword, and I nod and she swallows, her eyes going firm as pebbles and she says _then_ _please help me_.

That's it. I'm slain. She's asking me to go with her, and it makes want to die trying.


	5. Chapter 5

Truth be told, I hadn't been sure how I was going to make this happen. Slice my way through a fighting party, that I can do, but stealth and bribes and promises – more the Spider's bag of tricks than mine. The coin won on the drunk king's tourney all that time ago had found its way into the drains and cracks of every gambling house in Fleabottom, and tucked in the belt of the odd toothy whore too. Money is more slippery than a sword in my hands.

The twisted Lannister rodent comes round the corner. _Clegane_, he says in that voice that says I've read books and you haven't. _Imp_, I say, and keep walking. _Would it hurt you to call me by name once in while? _he says_. That slur gets tired very quickly_. _I'll have to think of a better one then_, I say. Bloody man is damned near a third of my size. The thought of him between Sansa's legs makes me want to pick him up and hurl him through the nearest window.

What he says next makes me stub my toe on my own boot, though. _I know you care a little for the girl_. I snort, loudly. _Have you not seen the face I've given her_, I say, making sure my voice is spiced and hot. _I have_, he says, calm, _and I'd wager you could have inflicted rather more damage than that if you'd really intended it_. He swivels his eye up at me, as if I'm the short-arse and he the one who has to stoop at doorways. _Funny_, he says, _that you didn't ask which girl I was referring to_.

_What the fuck do you want, you little shit_, I say.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

'That's a pretty flower you're wearing today, my lady.'

Sansa glanced down at her unadorned dress, puzzled for an instant, before realising what Joffrey meant. She made herself look up at him calmly. 'Thank you, your Grace.'

'You _should_ thank me, for not feeling the execution block underneath your chin after what you said to me. Ser Illyn was rather looking forward to having you kneeling beneath him.' His eyes swung around the throne room.

There was a faint titter from behind her. Sansa concentrated on making her face into a perfect sheet of ice, pouring new water on it, letting it freeze, knowing that the royal executioner was to her left, as rigid as the pillar he stood next to.

The pale yellow of her bruise had begun to blossom and deepen to peach and mauve. She had wondered if that was what the beginning of autumn looked like here.

Perhaps she wouldn't find out. The Hound had come to her, three days ago, a rap so soft on her chamber door that she had thought at first that Shae had come back.

His eyes had flicked down to her cheek and his shoulders had tensed. 'I've got you passage.'

It had felt strange having him here in her chamber again, his head almost touching the ceiling, without the knowledge that Shae was safely outside the door. But she would have to get used to it, if she was to leave with him.

'When?'

'Five days hence.'

It hadn't occurred to her that it might happen so soon. 'Five days?' She had swallowed, hard.

He had eyed her sharply. 'Have you plans, my lady?'

'No – I just didn't know you could arrange it so quickly.' She had smoothed her skirts and looked at him squarely. 'Thank you.'

He had given her a cursory nod.

Sansa's mind had raced. A ship, then, not horses in the night. It was probably safer that way – Cersei would strew the south with goldcloaks, and there were only so many places to hide. 'Where will we go?'

He ran a hand through his ragged hair. His knuckles were patched with congealed blood. 'Pentos.'

Sansa's heart had panged with disappointment. They weren't heading north, to Winterfell. But she knew it wasn't as simple as that.

The Hound had shifted. 'Not what you wanted?' He had looked uncomfortable, almost angry. 'Maybe it's not what I want either, but it's that or take your chances on another ship with an easy captain coming this way before you're bound to the smallest lord in Westeros.'

Sansa had shaken her head. 'I want to leave.' She had looked at him as boldly as she could. 'I'll go.'

The Hound had eyed her for slightly too long before abruptly breaking his gaze and studying the curtains fiercely. 'It leaves at twilight. You'll not be able to bring much. And we'll have to – disguise you.'

'How?'

His eyes had flickered over her hair.

'_No_.' Sansa had folded her arms over her chest.

His mouth had twitched, just a little. 'There are worse things.'

'I'm not cutting my hair.'

He had breathed a laugh through his nose. 'Everyone in Kings Landing knows that hair of yours. It's –' he stopped. 'It has to go. And you need to darken it, too.'

Sansa's shoulders had sagged. 'I'll get Shae to do it.'

He had narrowed his eyes at her a little. 'You trust her, then?'

She had tightened her jaw. 'Can she come?'

His shoulders had stiffened. 'Do you want her to?'

'Well, it would be good to have a lady's maid, to help me with –' she stopped when she saw his face beginning to twist into a sneer.

'I forget. You ladies. You're puppets, the lot of you. You need someone to dress you and feed you and tell you to put one foot in front of the other.'

Sansa had folded her arms around her chest. 'It's just – what I'm used to. I can't help being highborn.'

He had turned to the window irritably. 'Oh ay, it's a tough life.'

She had felt her face tighten. Had he forgotten her father? Everything she'd endured here? She turned away from him. 'Fine. I'll do without her.' The light from the window was the colour of sour cream.

He had taken a step towards her and she had felt her eyes on her cheek again. The unbruised side of her face had reddened. 'You'll need to pack a bundle. Nothing unnecessary.'

She had looked up at him. 'What will you take?'

He had patted the hilt of his sword, a glint in his eye. 'I don't need much.' His face became more serious. 'Five days. Be ready. Don't do anything stupid.' He had walked to the door.

'Wait.' Sansa had gone to the polished table underneath the window and picked up her jewels. She had held them out to him as he stooped in the doorway.

'I don't go in for fineries, my lady,' he had said, leaning down to her.

For once, she hadn't smelt wine on his breath. 'To pay the captain of the boat.'

'No need.' He had looked down at her, faintly proud. 'It's on me.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Her bruise was becoming a red sky at morning. I see it, sunrising on her face, in the throne room, once at Maegor's, underneath her blushes at the boy's lazy fucking insults. I get a better look at it when I go to her chambers to deliver the news, and feel a strange sort of rage, a rage at myself for doing it to her. I've never hated myself more.

She's not all smiles about the plan. Wouldn't blame her if she was having second thoughts – stowing away with a big ugly dog isn't exactly the spice that is sprinkled in all the old songs. I can't help being my old self, just a bit, just to remind her who I am. But she stands as tall, agrees, and a little bit of me feels proud, seeing that bit of Stark wolfling rising up in her.

What she doesn't know won't hurt her, though. That the Imp doesn't want to marry her either. How he'd pass up the chance to have her in his bed every night is beyond me, but he's a twisted little fuck. He's bid me take her west, to Riverrun, or near enough, to her mother, in exchange for his brother. Fool. The Young Wolf will never return the Kingslayer for a chit of a sister when he could return him for peace in the North, or Joff's head, neither of which will ever happen. So I'm taking his coin and doing it my way.

I'll get her back. Eventually.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa had never been on a ship before, save the skiffs that she and Margaery or Shae would take, bobbing along the White Harbour coastline, safe in view of the Keep, on a day when the sun turned the waves into melted butter. She wondered how much the boat might swell, or what it might be like when all you could see was – _sea_.

And _Pentos_. She was frightened - she couldn't help it. Coming to Kings Landing had been strange enough, though she'd been excited, then. A lifetime ago. To cross the Narrow Sea and be without any ally but – _him_, made her hotly nervous. He could still be mean when he felt like it. But with Joffrey continuing to taunt her and no sign of her brother's army heading towards the capital, what choice did she have? She tried to imagine walking in a humid harbour, filled with people with caramel-coloured skin, and the Hound walking by her side. It seemed a little ridiculous.

That night, Sansa watched Shae in her mirror as she brushed her hair. Shae had been acting strangely towards her these last few days. She would catch her eyeing her darkly, her jaw tight, the corners of her eyes narrowing.

Shae caught her gaze. 'What, my lady?'

Sansa pressed her lips together carefully. 'I need to tell you something.'

Shae glanced at her in the mirror. 'You shouldn't. Keep your secrets.'

'I have to.' Sansa took a deep breath. 'I'm leaving.'

Shae stopped brushing. The gulls made arcing cries outside the window. 'Where are you going?'

Sansa's voice dropped, nothing more than a skein on the breeze. 'Pentos.'

Shae stiffened for a moment, and then continued to brush her hair, as if Sansa had said she was going to the Godswood or the sept. 'Pentos is full of whores and sailors looking for whores. Why are you going there?' She suddenly put the brush down on the table and placed her hands on Sansa's shoulders. 'Who is taking you?'

Sansa knew better than to tell her. 'A – friend.'

Shae made Sansa turn around and stared at her searchingly. Sansa concentrated on keeping her eyes blank and wide. 'Who is it? Is it Littlefinger?'

Sansa shook her head vehemently.

Shae took Sansa's face in her hands, pressing a little too tightly. 'Don't go with him. You can't trust him. You can't trust anyone here. You know that.'

'I trust you, though.' Shae began to shake her head, slowly, her eyes travelling the room. 'It's not him, I promise. I would never –' she thought of his small, ferret-like eyes on her neck, and gave an involuntary shudder. 'I need you to help me with something, Shae. No one else can.' Sansa straightened her neck. 'I don't want to marry Lord Tyrion.'

Shae's breath caught just slightly, then. She put her lips together and touched the side of Sansa's head, her fingers light. 'I don't want you to marry him either.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

It's time. I've a burning in my chest like bad wine, thinking of all the things that can go wrong. I don't give three shits to what they'd do to me, but to the bird – slamming my eyes shut doesn't make the thoughts go away. Still, I've done all I can. Planned the route to the harbour where – gods willing – we won't be seen. Packed some belongings, though what I need beyond weapons and a wineskin fits into a sack the size of my hand. Bid farewell to my horse too, who I suppose I'll not see again, the great steaming bastard. Hope he gets a decent master on him, not one of the Kingsguard cunts.

I knock on her chamber door, quiet as rain. A maid answers, and I think, who the fuck? and then I realise it's her. Her, with her hair shorn to her chin, and as black as mine. The look on her face makes me want to crumple up in a pile laughing but I keep it in, just. _Don't say anything_, she says, and I just shake my head. _It'll work, little bird_ I say and she says _I look horrible_ and I think you could rub your face in pigswill and dress you in rags and you'd still light up the damned sky but I say _it'll grow back. Your head won't. Follow me, and try not to sound like a bloody princess_.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Sansa's heart felt like it had separated into shards. It rattled in her chest. They were deep in the belly of the castle, in corridors that smelt of boiled vegetables and oats, the stones slimy to touch. She was wearing a dress fit for a serving-girl. It itched, and was too tight at the waist. All she could think was what might happen if they were caught, and what they would do to him.

She was following the Hound, carrying a small bundle of her belongings. He didn't speak, cowled in his cloak, a giant raven-ghost sweeping in front of her. Her mouth was dry. What if this was all a terrible mistake? Perhaps marrying Lord Tyrion wouldn't be so bad. He'd look after her, probably, and she'd still have Shae around to protect her. The Hound was a killer, and proud of it.

He turned round to her suddenly. 'Best be quiet now.' His voice was a deep rumble in his chest.

'I _was_ being quiet,' she said in a whisper.

He glanced down at her feet. 'Aurochs could do better than that.'

She flushed. He grinned at her slightly and she saw, by the one flickering candle at the corner in front of them, that his eyes were glistening. He was relishing the danger. He was – _excited_.

'Stay close. We're to move quickly now. If anyone comes, run, and keep running until you get to the harbour. Look for the _Sunfish_. I've paid him some already.' He fished out three coins from his purse-belt. 'If I don't follow, give him this and tell him I couldn't make it.'

Sansa took them from him and gazed up at him, feeling alarm rising in her throat. 'But – what will you do? If someone comes?'

He smiled. 'Kill them all for you.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

I could do with a drink right now. Steady my nerves. Not because I'm fleeing – I don't care about that. Because she's _there_, tripping after me so loudly the whole damned castle can probably hear her. I try to imagine what will happen out there, on the boat, and in Pentos. What we'll do. Me and her. Gods, concentrate on getting her out of Kings Landing first, dog. Hold your fucking horses before you start dreaming of – gods, I'm more fool than Dontos.

It's stuffy as hells down here. Smells like dead cats. But it's like I have to pass through the bladder of this place until it shits me out the other side, and then I'll be free. We both will.

Hold up – voices. I push her against the wall. They're coming closer. I lean down to her ear.

_Run_.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Sansa had fled, quickly, holding her skirts up to her calves, her breath catching in her throat. The guards had hardly glanced at her, perhaps not even seen her at all, and as the argument turned into bloodshed, she had shrunk away into the shadows and dashed down the dank corridors, hearing the sound of swords on stone, swords on metal, swords in _flesh_. She thought she could hear him, his deep grunts, mixed in with cries of anger and cries of pain, but she couldn't be sure.

She had come out at a harbour that she didn't recognise, far from the refined jetties that she had ever set foot on. This was one of the great trader's quays, packed with ships and smaller boats of all shapes and sizes, and, even as the sun was beginning to lower, full of noise and smells of rotting fish, burnt black bread, sharp ale and spices.

At first she had waited by the end of the tunnel, waiting for the Hound. Any moment, she had thought, he will come out, and they'd go together, and she'd feel bold and brave, a sailor, as strong as those muscled women she sometimes saw swinging by ropes from the decks.

But he hadn't come. Her heart sinking, she had walked slowly along, her head bowed, peeking out through the coarse cloak that the Hound had given her, looking for her ship.

_There_. _Sunfish_ was painted on the bowside of a carrack in curling writing, peeling off a little. A fat merchant ship, relatively short but with tall, steep sides, three masts and a high-rounded stern. The sails were burnt orange with blue suns, their rays shaped into small, curved tail-fins. Men in loose shirts with rolled-up sleeves and sweat shimmering on their brows were throwing barrels and boxes up onto the deck, their shouts loose and lazy-sounding.

Sansa stood watching it, her heart pummelling in her chest. There was no sign of the Hound. She'd left him there, to fight alone, to maybe die alone, for _her_. How could she go on, on her own? She would be eaten alive, in Pentos if not on the boat by those sailors. Perhaps she should go back. She tried to imagine how she would explain why she had short, black hair, and Joffrey's face when he realised that she had tried to escape. Or what the Hound would think if he knew she'd flown back into the Keep, terrified, after all he'd done. Fear pinched her throat. Oh Gods, why had she left him there to fight?

She took a step forward, and then inched back again.

'Never seen a boat before, little bird?'

Sansa whipped round. The Hound was standing behind her, his chest heaving slightly, blood flecked diagonally across his unburnt cheek. Part of her wanted to put her hand up to it.

His eyes looked wild, but clouded and calmed as he looked at the ship. 'Go on, then.'

Sansa took a deep breath, still wondering that he was here, _alive_. She nodded, and he gently pushed her in the back towards it.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

It had almost been tight there, for a heartbeat. Five goldcloaks, swords unsheathed, looking for me, knowing I've taken off, and Sansa looking at them like a damned mouse before an eagle lands. But they've no interest in a dark-haired wench, and we start to fight and she becomes part of the wall, nothing more. And my sword's doing the work while my head's elsewhere, seeing her dash down those corridors, following the route she'll take, round the corner, through the iron gate I've made sure is unlocked, out into the belly of the Keep, and to the edge of the harbour. I'm thinking run, Sansa, run and get there, and all the while my sword's thirsty for its own sort of wine. Takes a time though, and for a while they almost have me. I'm getting rusty. I take off an arm and cut a groin and split a neck and then I get a hilt bashed into the back of my skull and crash down to the ground, and I'm thinking, the gods damn it all if I'm not going to get on that ship with her and see the Pentoshi sun on her bloody face, and I get myself up and finish it. I walk on, leave my last pile of dead Westerosis for a while, a bundle of red and gold.

The look she gives me when I find her, standing there at the harbour, her hair making that long neck glow, makes it all worthwhile. Though she doesn't look so happy when I get us on and we meet the captain and he says _it's a pleasure to have you and your daughter on board ser_. I know he's only being so damned air-and-grace because I've just pressed more coin into his palm. And she jerks her head at me, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead, her face going red as a sweet onion.

_Well what did you expect me to say_? I say to her as we walk over the deck. _Works a treat now you've the same hair as me_. She turns round and I almost clatter into her. She glares at me and says _stop smiling_ and I bite my lip.

_Ay my lady_, I say, and she walks again and I think, I'd like to see the glare you give me when you see we've only one chamber and all.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa had no idea that the boat would roll so deeply, the gait of an old, mad ox. She stood on the deck, her knuckles whitening on the rail, taking in deep lungfuls of the sea air, and watching the harbour recede.

The Hound had gone to seek out food for them both, and she was alone on one side of the ship, not quite believing that this was happening. She was escaping. She seemed to be the only female on this ship, save a couple of slight-looking serving wenches carrying jugs of ale wider than their hips, whose eyes darted up to her bruised face, and then the Hound's scars, curiously, before they scurried away. The captain was a broad-bellied man with a generous face and a strange expression, as if he was transfixed, until she realised that he had one glass eye. He had bawled orders to his men almost as soon as she and the Hound had come on deck, and the sails had made great slapping sounds as they took against the wind, the men on the oarsdeck groaning as one.

The light had almost faded, and the Red Keep walls were purpling, beginning to be lit with torches for the night. It looked so different from out here, the place she'd thought of as a labyrinthine prison – it looked_ small_. She felt her heart lifting, like a cotton skirt on a washline, as the sky deepened and night painted itself over the castle.

The boat pitched, and Sansa leaned with it, looking straight down into the black water. Nausea swirled in her throat.

'Alright?' The Hound was back, with black bread and cheese, which he was already tearing into. 'Supper for the lady,' he said, with his mouth full.

It wasn't exactly the sort of feast she'd been used to. Even when she was a little peckish before bedtime, Shae could get her grapes, almonds, honey. 'Thank you,' she said, taking some pieces from him delicately. Eating would help, she was sure. She looked back to the harbour, the edge of all the world she knew, the ground on which her brothers, her mother, and maybe Arya too - stood. Her heart swung. Bran and Rickon hadn't perished at Winterfell, it was thought. But no one knew about Arya. Whether she lived or had died. She watched the waves scud and pile over each other, and thought of her three youngest siblings jumping all over each other when they were little. She couldn't be dead. They were _all_ alive, somewhere.

The Hound was facing outwards too. She wondered about his family – all she knew about was his brother. Was he leaving others behind, somewhere?

'What do you feel, in here?' She tapped her chest.

He coughed through a mouthful of food. 'What the hells sort of a question is that?'

She ignored his brutishness, nodding towards the land. 'About leaving. You've been there a lot longer than I.'

He chewed more slowly, following her gaze. 'Don't feel anything. Not about that place.'

Perhaps he didn't have any other family, then. But it had been his home. 'Even though you had, I don't know, a duty?'

'Fuck duty.' He spat a bit of bread overboard.

She wondered what they would do in Pentos. She had her jewels and the Hound seemed to have some coin for now, but surely it wouldn't last forever. 'Well, work then, I mean you had work, and lodgings, and –'

'Want me back there, do you?' His voice began to grow a harder edge.

Sansa sighed. 'No.' Why did he always have to grow dark, and so quickly? She never knew what would make his voice drop into his chest, get that graininess in it. She ate her food silently, cursing him.

His _daughter_. She felt a strange sort of anger at that. Partly she didn't want to be anyone's daughter but her own father's. And partly she felt a sort of tangled, desperately curling embarrassment at having to play that role, with all of the sailors looking at them. She wasn't a _child_. He could have said anything, that she was his servant, his sister, his wi -

And then the boat rolled again, and her stomach lifted too.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Reckon a boat is much like riding a horse, except that this horse thunders and foams more than a hundred Strangers, and the ground pitches underneath your damned feet, never resting. The wind's different out here too – it draws salt from your flesh, and throws more at it. I've a fist twisting up my insides – can't even look at my damned wineskin – but she's worse. Takes about three breaths before she's green at the neck and watching her dinner spin away from her on the sea, holding onto the woodrail for dear life. I send her to our chamber.

Kings Landing has gone from sight, and I'm left with a damned sky as big as anything I've ever seen. And stars like someone's chucked a load of shined gravel up there. The sea's got a sound all of its own, too. The men on here are giving me odd looks. Don't know what to make of me, maybe. Of us. When she asked what I was feeling, I almost choked to death on my own tongue. She wouldn't have wanted to know the truth, that I was watching her pick at the bread like it was sugarspin, dreaming of sharing that bed below decks, nuzzling into her new hair, which smells woody and sharp.

They all stink of tar and sour wine, this lot. I think, maybe they've seen that she's gone down there alone. Maybe they think to find out what's under her -

*S*S*S*S*S

One chamber.

Sansa felt her stomach slop about her body, untethered, and clutched herself tight as the boat rolled again. She was supposed to be a _lady_, not a wasting vessel of bile. This was not to way to begin a dramatic escape. Her eyes travelled weakly about the room – if you could call it that. The one candle threw queasy shadows onto the wooden stool, the tiny, barred window, the sodden floorboards, and the bed she lay in. She had vomited twice more since she had come down here, into a bucket that leaked slightly, and could hear it sloshing about. You definitely didn't get this in the songs.

She kept bringing her hand up to the ends of her hair. It was only hair, but she missed it. It was _her_. The sea-salt had already stiffened the strands to tarred straw. She'd brought more black walnut oil in case she needed it, tucked away in her bundle, but she hoped she wouldn't have to. She wondered if Shae had been able to get it out of her hands by now – it had stained her fingers down to the knuckles. The Hound had grinned at her when he'd seen its colour, and she'd hated him for it. No matter how much he'd done for her, he couldn't ever resist a chance to jape at her. It made her clench her teeth.

And what of – tonight? He'd arranged _one_ chamber for them both. She supposed it was safer this way, amongst these rough men, with their missing teeth and lurching looks, but – where would he sleep? Part of her was so weak she didn't care at all, but another, the part that still pictured her mother's face, and her lips drawn tight together, dreaded him coming in.

The door creaked.


	8. Chapter 8

When I get down, she's rolled up tight in a ball like a hedgehog, just bundles of hair sticking out, black spikes. The air's overripe. _You alright little bird_? I say, keeping my voice low in case she's asleep. _No_, she says, the word like a creak of the ship. I make her drink water and she looks at me with green eyes and a green face and takes two sips, slowly. I try to make her have more but she says _can't_ and flops back down, limp as a mummer's doll, turning her back to me.

I look at the stool. That'll break under me as soon as I sit on it. The floor's as damp as an old man's breeches. I put my cloak down on it, carefully loosen my armour, my eyes on her. She doesn't move a jot. One day, bird, you'll do this for me, I think, my head in the clouds again.

It's like lying in a bog. A bog that moves, slowly from side to side, never in rhythm. Once you think you've got it, it catches you out, and lurches so heavily in direction you go with it. My back's freezing. My head clunks on the boards.

Fuck this. I get up, quiet, and sit at the side of the bed.

She half-rolls over, eyes like the ocean-slop in the harbour, and wide, too. _I need to sleep, little bird_, I say. She goes back onto her side, her back to me, and I get in next to her, and careful as I can, bring my hand underneath her ribs to move her further over. She's sleeping in all her clothes, but I can feel her heat, and dampness too, from her fever. She's as light as a bundle of laundry. A little sound, like a faraway gull, goes in her throat and she gives a shiver.

Gods, my heart's going now. Might as well be standing up in the room pounding on a bloody war drum. Lying in bed with the bird, with Sansa, Westeros at our backs. It's all I can do not to put my arm out, pull her into me, put my face in her black hair. Hair that I know is fire, underneath. It'll burn again, soon enough.

And then she crunches up, leans over the side of the bed, and throws up again into the bucket.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

She never thought she would feel quite like this. Her head hurt, her stomach was a pit of fire, and a trail of cold sweat was trickling down her neck. But she wasn't afraid. She should be – the fiercest killer in the Seven Kingdoms, at least along with his brother, was lying inches away from her. He was sleeping, facing her, and his breathing wove in with the creaking of the ship, an ancient crone's bones, and with the slow gnashing of the sea.

Of course he should sleep here. He'd _rescued_ her. She'd asked him to help her escape, and he'd done so, risking his own life. He was leaving his own home to get her away. Daughter, one chamber – what did it matter? She owed him everything.

His great form under the blankets blotted out much of what remained of the candle. A lock of his hair hung diagonally over his face, and kept being dragged further in when he inhaled. It made him look almost - vulnerable. Very carefully, she dared herself to reach out and tug it away, letting it fall by his ear. He gave a loud breath in, and smacked his lips together slightly in his sleep. She bit her lip with a grin.

Sansa could just see the ridges of his burns, tiny jagged waves in the skin, and the way his earlobe melted into his neck. She wondered what he would have looked like if Gregor hadn't pushed him into the fire. The unburnt side of his face was smooth, and covered in dense, black beard. There were lines at the edges of his eyes.

The Hound opened them suddenly. 'Thought you didn't like to look.'

Sansa swallowed. 'I didn't know you were awake.' Her voice sounded very small.

He sniffed. 'Am now.' He stared at her. 'Go on then, have a good look.'

Sansa refused to be frightened. Not any more. He was her only ally now, and she meant to keep him that way. She stared back. 'I don't know why you think I care about that any more.'

They both lay perfectly still, facing each other. They were lying there like family, she thought. Like brother and sister. Like husband and wife.

'You used to damned near run away rather than look at me,' he said.

'I'm older now. And – I know you - more. I know that doesn't mean anything.' She could hear him chewing on the inside of his cheek. 'Anyway, sometimes I was only scared because of the way you looked at _me._'

He made a dry noise in his throat. 'What the bloody hells does _that_ mean?'

'You would look at me like you hated me.' His eyes went to the ceiling. 'You _would_.'

The ship made a long, groaning sound. The Hound didn't speak. Perhaps she had angered him again. She pulled the covers further over her shoulders and went to turn away.

'You're wrong.' He turned to face her again, and there was a dark, strange look in his eyes. They held her, and she didn't dare move. She had always been scared of his eyes, more than anything else, and the glowering grey loathing that had swept over everything, including her. But this was different. This was – new. His breath warmed her cheek. He was looking at her like - her heart rose to her throat.

The boat lurched again, a slow pitch in the same direction for an impossibly long time. Sansa rolled into the Hound and heard the stool tumble over and the bucket topple. There was a broad, low, stretching sound. Perhaps the ship was going to tip right over, and she'd drown, clinging onto the Hound, becoming salt and sea. She kept her nose to his chest, whimpering slightly, and shut her eyes tight. But it righted again, and she heard men shouting.

His arm was around her. He smelt of sweat and leather and wine, and his nose was in her hair.

She looked up at him, her chin on his chest. 'The bucket.' The stench of her vomit was filling the room even more than before, acrid and heavy. 'I'm sorry.'

'It doesn't matter. We'll get someone to clean it up in the morning.'

He wasn't moving his arm. It lay heavily across her ribs, and was incredibly warm. His mouth opened, just a little. She heard his breath form, his chest rise. 'Go to sleep,' he said, very gently.

Sansa turned her face to the ceiling, staying tucked up right against him. She could feel his heart, a slow, calm thud behind his ribcage. Her stomach burned again. It didn't feel like seasickness.

And then the door flew open, and men with swords were there.

The captain followed them in. 'I'd heard about brothers and sisters, but not fathers and daughters as well. You bloody Westerosi.'

And they all laughed.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

I swear not long into the night I felt her fingers on me, on my cheek, my hair. And I woke up and she told me she didn't care about my face and my damned heart broke up like an iceberg. And the ship rolled and, gods, it could have been a good night for me, there. Best night of my life, probably.

But that's forgotten now. I've ruined everything.

Seems I made the wrong choice. Chose the wrong fucking captain to give my - the _Imp's_ – coin to. Somebody else knew about the whole thing. A spy. But not one of the Spider's, or Joff's.

Stannis. The blackheart who would be king. Robert without the personality. Renly without the heart, or the lust for cock. He might have lost Blackwater but he hadn't given up.

And now Sansa and I are standing on deck, trussed up, swords pointed at our necks, and I can see the great sharp folds of a castle, jutting out from a cliff like a load of black blades, as the sun starts to come up.

Dragonstone.

**Thanks for reading/following, people! Dooo leave me a review if you're enjoying it and lemme know what you think!**


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa's wrists burned. Her arms were pulled behind her back and her hands were tied. She was standing as still as she could on the tilting deck, a stinging spray fizzing onto her face. Her stomach was wrung out with sickness and fear. Two men stood either side of her, but at least their swords were lowered.

It was worse for the Hound. After the men had entered their chamber, he had leapt up and bashed the skulls of two of them against the wall, and was going for a third when he was overpowered and the captain put a dagger to his throat. Now, as well as his hands, his ankles were tied together and five men stood guard around him, the points of their swords pressed against his neck and chest. When the ship rolled, they made a play of losing their balance, their blades jerking, laughing heartily. Blood trickled from a cut on his eyebrow, but he didn't seem to notice. He didn't look at Sansa, just growled at them all, telling them that he'd take them apart with his bare hands once he was free.

It didn't look like they were going to be free anytime soon. The great castle brooded above them, sharply angled and impossibly dark with the pale dawn light behind it. The thin, jutting battlements made her think of the card-stacking game she and Arya would play when they were younger. Each tower had small, deadly-looking turrets, and she could see the shapes of gargoyles gesticulating down at her accusingly. She shuddered.

It took all five men to haul the Hound to his feet, and when they did, he went to head-butt one of them and another hit him on the ear with the hilt of his sword. The Hound stumbled and spat on the deck. They pushed him towards Sansa as the steep cliff walls made everything grow darker again, the boat sliding into harbour. When he caught her eye, his furious eyes turned foggy.

'I'm sorry, little bird.' His voice was as heavy as an anchor.

Sansa shook her head and spoke quietly. 'You didn't know.'

'I should have.' He looked up at the black stone. 'And now I've brought you to an even worse fate.'

'It could never be worse.' She lowered her voice further. 'Sandor –' he flinched at the use of his name – 'I want you to know – I am so very grateful for what you did. For helping me.'

She leant her body against his arm. He was almost trembling.

'Some help,' he said hoarsely.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

The stairway seemed to go on forever. Perhaps they would emerge up amongst the clouds, she thought, not quite believing that they were here, in the first house of the Targaryens. Dragons were everywhere – curving claws held up the torches on the walls, and snarling faces glared down at her from archways. Everything seemed very cold, and slick with damp. She could see her breath misting the air in front of her.

They were led to a central keep, and into a large room that faced the slate-grey sea, with curving stone arches open to the buffeting wind. In the middle of the room was the largest table she had ever seen, but certainly not one you could hold a feast upon. It was strangely-carved, and knobbled with ridges and bumps. Parts of it were painted dark-green, others grey, with thick blue veins running through it. It was a map. A map of Westeros.

'I had not thought to find you within these walls, Lady Sansa.'

Sansa's heart jerked. A man was sitting on a high chair on her right, high enough that one could see the whole table from it. Another man stood alert next to the throne, his hands folded behind his back.

The seated man rose and descended the stone steps, stopping a few hands away from her. His dark hair was receding slightly and he wore dull black leather. The gaunt, tight-stretched skin of his face made her think of leather, too.

He drew his eyebrows together and gazed at her, a look of cool stone and steel. 'You are Lady Sansa Stark, are you not?'

Sansa glanced at the Hound, who was flanked by guards. His shoulders sagged and he gave the faintest nod. 'Yes, ser,' she said.

'Yes, your _Grace_.'

_This_ was Stannis? He had the same blunt northern vowels as King Robert, but none of the richness, either in his voice or in his manner.

'I'm sorry, yes, your Grace.'

'Untie her, then.' A guard came and undid the ropes from her hands. She rubbed her thumb on her wrist and tried to look for Winterfell on the table. 'I might have almost taken you for one of my own kin.' Stannis' eyes flickered over her hair. 'I'd word that you were a redhead.'

Sansa darted a look at the Hound again. Stannis had not asked him to be untied. He stood awkwardly, looking defiant. 'I – I am, your Grace, but – '

'Go on.'

'I was escaping.' She looked at the floor. 'Trying to escape.'

Stannis pulled his bottom lip in with a front tooth, looking at her thoughtfully. 'And why would you want to do that?'

Sansa took a deep breath. 'King Jo- Joffrey wanted to marry me to Lord Tyrion, your Grace.'

Stannis' shoulders stiffened. Of course, he would hold no love for the man who poured wildfire on half of his ships, and trapped the dying with that great sea-chain. 'A tall thing like you and the Imp? I'd like to have seen that.'

He continued to gaze at her. She might as well have been looking at a cliff-face. He didn't seem to _breathe_. Then his eyes moved past her ear and further behind her. 'And why, pray, are you with this one, my lady?'

Sansa turned to face the Hound, who still had ropes binding his arms behind him. The blood from his eyebrow had pooled into his beard, and glistened there. 'This is Sandor Clegane, your Grace. He helped me escape.'

'I know who he is.' Stannis walked over to him, only reaching the Hound's shoulders. 'You killed a lot of my men.'

The Hound sniffed and looked at the wall. 'Ay, probably I did. It's what you do when you're Kingsguard.'

'Guard to a boy who would be king. A usurper. A result of incest.'

'Not my place to question the king.' The Hound slid his eyes to Stannis. '_A_ king. Your Grace.' There was the merest trace of sarcasm in his voice.

'My sons had the skin melted off their bones by your wildfire.' The other man stepped closer to them all. He was heavily bearded, and his skin was reddish and flaked.

The Hound eyed him, disinterested. 'You think I like fire?' He jerked the burnt side of his face towards the man. 'Not my doing.'

Stannis didn't move. 'Pray explain why you're not with your boy king now.'

The Hound's eyes flitted towards Sansa's and to the wall again. 'Every man has his limits.'

Stannis turned back to Sansa. 'The captain of the Sunfish said you were engaged in bed with him.'

Sansa felt her neck redden. 'I was very sick, your Grace, from the boat. And frightened. He was just – comforting me.'

Stannis frowned at her. 'Not very seemly behaviour for a highborn girl.'

'N- no, your Grace.' The Hound's eyes clouded slightly, then.

'And who did that to you?' Stannis' eyes were on her bruised cheek.

'One of the – Joffrey's guards.' She looked at her feet. 'What will you do with us, your Grace?'

'Us?' The word was light, tossed in the air, disappearing out to sea. 'You, my lady, shall be my guest for now. You're going to be useful to me.' Stannis looked musingly at the Hound. 'A butcher, traitor, and kidnapper. I should execute you myself.'

Sansa's breath snagged.

The Hound's face set. 'Go on, then.'

'Your Grace –' the bearded man spoke. 'It might be worth keeping hold of him. He could tell us quite a bit about the state of the city, the guards.'

Stannis remained looking at the Hound, a statue. Then he sniffed and addressed the guards. 'Take him to the cells. Let him rot for now.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Fuck them all. Fuck the Lannisters. Fuck the Baratheons. Fuck the Starks.

Smells like death down here. They dragged me over a stone bridge so high I swear I saw my heart smash down there on the rocks. And now I'm slung in a cell that sounds like it's under the sea. There's a fucking starfish on the wall, and seaweed like dripping snot, which means that if a storm comes, I'm fucked.

I know what he'll do, that saddle-faced blackheart. Hostage her, marry her off to any half-bred Baratheon he can find, and kill me, soon enough. Don't know what I'm doing wasting down here. Someone give me a sword and let me fight my way to death.

I try and remember what it was like with my arm round her. Ribs under my forearm. She didn't pull away, scurry to the far edge of the bed. She'd - stayed.

She smelt of vomit, and I didn't care. I would have kissed her and it would have been as sweet as a summer orchard.

Still, she's realised her mistake now. She was ashamed to have been found in bed with me. Course she was. Me a bit of midborn rot and her –

Hells, it's cold.


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa had been given a dark-purple dress, a heavy thing that pulled her shoulders in. She wondered if it belonged to Stannis' wife. She remembered hearing the maids idly giggle about Lady Selyse in the weeks before Blackwater – that she was more in love with the new faith from across the sea than her husband, that she was mad and raked the walls with her nails and screamed all day long, that she'd slept with their halfwit fool and birthed a fish.

A shiver ran through her again, even though the room was warm. She had been in here all day, a dolorous chamber with dark green curtains and damp rushes on the floor. Something smelt sickly and sweet. It looked down onto a cliff so steep that it made her feel ill all over again and she'd had to lie down on the bed, the room swinging around her. She'd been given a bath though, and food, which she picked at carefully, her stomach still sore. There was no sound here, apart from the boom of the sea – no maid's footsteps, voices of servants or guards. Everything was swallowed up by the black stone.

She wondered how the Hound fared. Less well, she was sure of that. They'd yanked him away, and he'd cursed and spat, not looking at her. A pang of guilt throbbed in her stomach. He'd done this all for her, when he could have still been in King's Landing, with his own room, men to command. And now she was sitting in a warm chamber, too warm, and she would be fed and could sleep on this bed, while he – Gods, where had they put him? He was somewhere beneath her, perhaps in the circular tower she could see from her window, the one that jutted out right into the sea. He was captured, and uncomfortable, and alone.

A bed. She had breathed him in, the leather and sweat of him. He had put his arm round her, and his voice had been the gentlest she'd ever heard from him. She hadn't moved. She'd felt – safe.

It was all her fault.

There was a knock. A maid entered, and Sansa could see the guards at either side of the door. They'd been there the whole time. A guest she may be, but Stannis wasn't planning for her to go anywhere.

'You're invited to supper with his Grace and Lady Selyse.' Sansa sighed and stood up. Time to play the part again.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

I'll go fucking mad down here. There's not a single other man with me, none alive anyway. I've called out enough times, and all I hear is the stone throwing my voice back at me, just once, the word all broken up.

There's another smell down here, too. Shit. Shit and piss. One corner of my cell reeks of it. Someone was down here of late, then. Wonder what happened to him.

Gods.

The candle spits its last. Flame-red hair turning black.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Everything in the castle wore shadows like a cloak. The feasting chamber was no different – its great candelabras dripped fat drops of wax, but the room still brooded oppressively.

'That's a rather more fitting look for a lady.' Stannis was seated at the far end of a long, slim table, his back as straight as a sheet of iron. The table was stone, black again, and there were no furnishings, no cloths on the chairs, no flowers.

Sansa curtsied carefully. 'Thank you, your Grace.'

A lady was seated at the other end by Sansa, and she rose in a sudden movement. Her eyes were bright, too bright, and her face pale but for two pinches of unnatural colour high on her cheeks. She came very close, staring at Sansa as if she were a book in Tyroshi or Braavosi, and put a warm, too warm, hand on her face.

'Welcome to Dragonstone, my dear. It is an honour to have you here.' Her hand pressed further. 'It has been a long while since we have had female guests, but I hope –'

'- That's quite enough, Selyse.' Stannis spoke with a trace of irritability. 'Let the girl eat.'

Supper was served, Sansa sitting at the middle of the long table. There would have been room for twenty more guests between them all. No one spoke as the two servants brought in fish soup, though she could hear the sea on the rocks far below them, like a great door banging in the wind. She was still swaying slightly from seasickness – the table was rocking, just a little.

'It's a pity you're not a boy.'

Sansa looked up.

Stannis was eyeing her inscrutably. 'I'd marry you to my daughter to bring your brother to heel.' He went back to his soup. 'You're a pretty thing, mind. I'd take you myself if I wasn't already married. Perhaps you might even give me a son or two, unlike this one.'

Sansa shot a glance at Selyse, but the lady only gazed back at her glassily, nodding her encouragement.

Stannis mopped at the corner of his mouth with a small black cloth. 'Still, I will have word sent to your brother that you are here. And in the meanwhile decide best who to marry you to.'

Married. That was all they ever wanted to do with her – pass her around like a piece of prize gold, traders measuring her weight in their hands, bargaining over her cost. This was the man she thought would protect her when he won the battle of Blackwater. She'd refused the Hound's offer of escape that night in the hope of his protection. But she knew better than to protest now. Stannis was stonily calm but she sensed a deep, boiling anger in him. She looked down at the plate of quail in wine that had been placed before her, and wondered what they were feeding the Hound.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

My gut's torn up. I've eaten nothing for a day. Is it still day? Fuck me if I know. It's as black as Stranger's haunch down here, and there's been no guard. My bones aren't getting any drier. Hold up – a light's flickering down the way, I think. Is it? My eyes playing tricks already, maybe. Then I hear – seven hells. A chill, a new one, spreads through me.

There's _singing_. I swear it.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

The next day was the same as the first. Kept to her chamber for the day, brought food to break her fast and to lunch, watching the sea rolling itself into grey, slate-blue, and grey again. Maybe this _was_ a worse prison than the last, though at least no one was beating her yet.

Over supper, Stannis cleared his throat. Sansa looked up. She'd learnt that he did this when he wanted everyone to attend him.

'I've someone who wants to meet you after you've eaten.' He was looking at the table but she knew he was addressing her.

'Of course, your Grace,' she said, wondering who on earth it could be.

After they had finished their meal – in silence again, apart from a strange, nervous laugh from Lady Selyse, seemingly for no reason at all – Sansa followed a maid down a gloomy staircase. For a moment she hoped that it might lead to the cells, but it hardly seemed likely. The maid stopped at a large wooden door, bobbed a curtsey, and dashed back up the stairs. Sansa turned to the guard who had followed them down. He nodded coldly at the door. She took a deep breath, and knocked.


	11. Chapter 11

**For Damonaica4ever, just because she asked**

Light, scurrying footsteps neared and the door opened a crack. A little girl, half her size almost, peeked out.

'Lady Sansa!' she said brightly, and opened the door wider. Part of her face seemed to be in shadow. She stood up very straight and looked solemnly at her. 'Please come in.' She frowned at the guard. '_You're_ not allowed.'

The girl was perhaps eight years old, with a dark curtain of hair. She sat down on her bed and patted it, looking up at Sansa with keen, raisin-coloured eyes, and Sansa could see more of her face. It wasn't in shadow. The skin was scaly and rough, like the underside of old leather, and cracked in places. Dark patches covered most of one cheek, her nose and her forehead.

Sansa sat down. The room was windowless, and so dark. There were soft hangings on the wall, and drawings, perhaps by the girl, of dragons and castles, and a large pile of books, and some small wooden toys on the floor. A wild, deep-purple rose drooped its neck over the lip of a glass.

'You are Lady Sansa of House Stark,' announced the girl. Sansa nodded gently, feeling almost shy. 'You father is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and your mother is Lady Catelyn of House Tully.'

'Was,' said Sansa softly.

The girl looked puzzled for a moment, and then her face cleared. 'Oh. Yes. Your father _was_ Lord Eddard Stark.' She slipped a hand underneath one of Sansa's, which rested on her lap. 'How many brothers and sisters do you have?'

Sansa's heart felt like a distant, tolling bell. 'Five.'

'What are their names?'

'Robb –' grinning with his face newly shaven before Kings Robert's arrival at Winterfell – 'Arya –' doing curious little dancing steps in their King's Landing solar, her left hand outstretched – 'Bran –' jumping down from a wall, Mother scolding him – 'Rickon –' burrowing his face into Shaggydog, his wild locks merging with his wolf's. 'And Jon.' Jon, broodingly packing all his black clothes.

'I don't have any brothers and sisters,' the girl said sadly.

'I'm sorry,' said Sansa. 'But – who is your father and mother?'

The girl told her.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

My brain's going to soup. No food, half a cup of water slung through the bars in the morning – lucky if I catch it, a few steps closer to dying if I don't.

And the singing, and the light. There are spirits in here. Ghosts of dead men, ghosts of girls. Can't tell if it's coming from down the hallway or through the damned walls.

I try to imagine Sansa singing to me, her voice like a water-fountain. Fat fucking chance. She's forgotten all about me.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Sansa sat on Shireen's bed again the next night, a picture book on her lap, Shireen pointing to dragons and slayers and kings. Her company lifted her heart, just a little, though she couldn't understand how she could be so full of sunshine when she lived in this dark place.

Sansa found Shireen eyeing her curiously.

'You're not scared when you look at me.'

'Why would I be?'

Shireen shrugged. 'Everyone is, when they first see me anyway. Some of them always are. The guards are. And the maids. Ser Davos isn't, though. He's very kind to me. He's the Onion Knight. He doesn't really have a House. I'm teaching him to read.'

Sansa smiled at her. 'You're very clever, to do that.'

Shireen nodded and turned the page of her book. They looked at some of the pictures. 'Even Father does, sometimes.'

'Does what?' said Sansa.

'Looks scared.'

Sansa put her hand on Shireen's head, and turned another page. 'Tell me about this one.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Mouth's as dry as the Red Waste. Hurts to close it, now. Gods, someone kill me.

There's light on the walls again, and this time it comes closer, spreading a dull glow. Fucking gods deliver me. My skin curls a little off my bones. It's still coming closer, and the singing starts again. Humming, strange tunes from the bottom of the sea. I shrink to the corner, in amongst the shit and piss.

_Hello_ says a little voice and my heart fucking stops. I look through my hair. A tiny girl, holding a light, a girl who looks like a crone. _Bugger off,_ I scream.

A scamper of feet, and the light disappears.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

'I know a secret.'

Sansa and Shireen were walking in Aegon's Garden – guards following them of course, as if Sansa was going to make a dash for the cliff and _swim_ back to King's Landing. It was a relief to breathe in the air and remind herself that world still existed out here. She had been beginning to doubt it, looking at those stifling green curtains for hours and hours. It wasn't the most pleasant garden she'd ever been in – the wind screamed through the impossibly tall pines, making them creak like old doors – but Shireen had shown her the cranberry patch in the bogs, and they'd picked some wild roses for both of their chambers.

Sansa had dropped her voice so that it got lost in the wind. 'What's that?'

Shireen was holding Sansa's hand, and it tightened slightly. 'I know where the prisoners live.'

They kept walking. 'Do you?' said Sansa, keeping her voice very calm.

Shireen nodded, matter-of-factly. '_And_ I can get down there.'

Sansa stopped. 'Can you show me how?'

Shireen shook her head, firmly. 'You're too big. I can only get there because I'm little. I won't always be able to, I suppose, though I don't seem to be getting any bigger.'

Sansa led her to a bench made of gnarled pine and sat her down. 'Have you been down there since – I've been here?'

The girl nodded. 'There's a man there. He's _ginormous_.'

Sansa took Shireen's hand in both of hers. 'Have you – seen how he is?'

Shireen kicked her legs in the air. 'He sits in the corner furthest away from me. He shouts a bit and tells me to go away, but I'm not sure if he's really talking to me or not. He only has a little bowl of water, like you would give to a dog.'

There was a dull pain in her stomach. Sansa knelt down in front of Shireen, her knees in the mud, so that her back was to the guards, who stood a little distance away.

'I want you to do something for me. Something very brave. Do you think you can?'

Shireen squinted into the pale, cold sun. 'Alright.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

The girl-crone comes again. One moment it's dark and I'm dreaming of meat, dense and chewy, and water, and the next she's there, at the bars, holding her light up. I roll into the corner. _Hello_, she says. Must be the Stranger. My stomach is clawing my way out of my throat. _Please don't_, I say in a voice like a child's. _Please don't what_? she says and I peek out again and she's still on the other side of the bars, she hasn't come to take me down to the furthest hell.

_Who the hells are you_? I whisper and she says _Oh, I am Shireen, my father is King Stannis although I'm not really sure if he is a king, do you know if he is_? My mind's trying to grind awake properly, and she says _you know, of House Baratheon, my uncle was Robert, who was definitely the king, although some only ever called him Usurper_. _Who are you_? she says and I say_ I'm no one, girl _and she says_ everyone is someone._ _Not me_, I say, feeling hollow as an old tree. _You're _her_ friend_, she says. _Whose_? I say and she says _Lady Sansa's_. She's looking at me as plainly as a septa schooling her charges.

_She tell you that, did she_? I say slowly to my feet. _Yes,_ she says, _and she told me you were very brave and kind and strong_. The girl pulls something out her pocket and pokes her fingers through the bars. _She said to give you this_.

I inch closer. Bread. She's brought me bread.

_Don't tell anyone_ she says in the loudest whisper ever as I take it from her, and she runs away, the light shrinking.

I feel like crying.


	12. Chapter 12

The girl comes again, and brings more bread, and cold meat, which tastes better than I'd dreamt, and water. I think about asking her to get me wine – haven't had a drink, a real drink, in days. I'm cramming it down me when she says _oh. You're like me_. And I look up and she's clinging to the bars, holding her torch up and staring at my face, and I see hers properly, the side of it like an old crust of bread, hardened, spread over her forehead too. Not burns – something else.

_Were you cursed too_? she says. _Ay_, I say, _if you like_, thinking of my brother.

_I shouldn't be down here, you know_, she says, watching me eat. _Ay, that's as sure as hells_, I say, _you'd best get_. But she hangs around, running a finger down a bar, and says, _I came down here to visit Ser Davos, I gave him books, but they let him out. Maybe they'll let you out soon, _she says, bright as sun on a plate. _Shouldn't reckon so_, I say.

She turns to go. _Girl_, I say. The light swings back round. _The little bi– Lady Sansa_. _Is she well?_ She screws her face up a little, nods and shrugs. _She seems sad_, she says. _Everyone is sad here_. _But she looks happy when we wrap up the food for you._

I chew my last shred, slowly.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

A few days later and Sansa was walking in the Garden again with Shireen, her fool ambling along behind them. The little girl seemed to only be allowed outside every so often - for what reason she couldn't fathom - the rest of the time remaining in the stifling air of her chamber. However, she knew more about the castle than her father could imagine, and told Sansa, her hands curving in front of her as she talked, about the hidden corridors, the trapdoor, and the alleyways she could slip through. Sansa was now allowed to walk some parts of the castle unbidden, and found her way along corridors made more menacing by candlelight.

Shireen had taken great delight in their secret. Sansa would hide half of the food from her morning and afternoon meal behind the heavy curtains, and steal it under her skirts on her near-daily visits to Shireen, who would gleefully wrap it in a little shawl and put her finger to her lips. She didn't seem to be the slightest bit frightened of going down to the cells, or seeing Sandor. Sansa hoped that he was being nice to her.

Sandor. She couldn't think of him as the Hound any more. Knowing he was chained up there in the near-dark, for _her_, was degrading enough. At least if she thought of him by his true name, she was giving him a scrap of dignity, whether he knew it or not.

The two of them stood at under the row of trees, tall pines as alert and aloof as a king's guards, and looked out to sea. There was a small boat in the distance.

'What's out there?'

Sansa looked at Shireen, her hair whipping her cheek. 'What do you mean?'

Shireen nodded at the dim gold of the horizon. '_There_.'

'You've got all your maps, I'm sure you know the answers,' said Sansa and lifted Shireen's hand up, uncurling her forefinger. 'That's the Narrow Sea, and if you go that way you get to Pentos, or further round to Braavos, and if you go that way you reach Myr. And King's Landing of course, back that way.'

'I know. But – what are they like?' Shireen dropped her hand and turned to Sansa. 'What's King's Landing like? Is it like here?'

Sansa looked across at the castle's dark-set jaw. 'It's – a lot bigger. The walls are red brick, and the towers are very tall and round, and all the guards wear gold and red. There are a lot of traders bringing food and clothes and jewellery from all over, and lots of boats in the harbour.'

Patchface was crooning very quietly some way behind them.

'Is everyone happy there?' asked Shireen.

Feasts with tables piled high with fruit and boars' heads and wine. Bards singing loudly. Dances. Laughter and shouting and Cersei, watching her, hawk-like. Joffrey, sneering. Her father, on Baelor's Steps. Waking up after a beating, her stomach pulsing. Being chased by the rioters in Fleabottom, and Sandor killing them all.

'No. It's the same as everywhere else. The ones who are happy are only happy because they're not thinking about those less fortunate than themselves.'

The distant boat had grown closer. It was a small one, with a thin, orange-coloured streak on its two white sails.

'Oh,' said Shireen. '_She_'s back.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Sansa had received an invitation to lunch by Lady Seylse today for the first time, written in a quavery hand on paper scented heavily with wild roses. She was almost relieved to find Stannis was there too. The prospect of being alone with this unnerving woman, who she constantly found staring at her tremblingly at the feasting table, had not been one she was relishing.

She cursed her, though, as she began her first course. It was one less meal she could share with Sandor today, and what if this became a regular requirement? She resolved to go without breakfast, so that he could still eat.

Ser Davos joined them, making his apologies for being late. Sansa liked him. He seemed warm, so much warmer than everyone else in the castle, and had no airs or graces. He spoke to Sansa like she was a real person, not a hostage, or a stupid little girl. She'd spoken to him more than once to ask after Sandor, although he'd simply shaken his head and said he didn't know. Stannis seemed to respect him, too. Occasionally she saw him in the Gardens staring out to sea, his maimed hand tucked into his other one, and she thought of his sons, and the wildfire.

'My king.' The voice was bold and as rich as wine.

A woman unlike any Sansa had ever seen before came striding through the doorway. Her cloak was vermillion red, and her hair was redder than Sansa's would ever be, as red as weirwood leaves. Her skin was the colour of bone.

'Lady Melisandre.' Stannis carefully mopped his lip, but didn't stand.

The lady stood as if she were a queen expecting them all to wait on her. Ser Davos was glaring at her, having stopped chewing his food, and she gave him a cool look. She gave a slight inclination of her head to Lady Selyse, whose hands fluttered to her neck as she made a sound of greeting behind her lips, and then her gaze fell upon Sansa.

Sansa's breath caught. The woman's _eyes_ were red.

'I trust you found whatever it was you were looking for?' Stannis sounded perfectly disinterested.

'I did, your Grace.'

Two guards entered, flanking a young man in simple grey clothes with messy black hair, as black as the castle walls, who stood awkwardly, a shoulder stooped.

'This is the bastard son of Robert Baratheon, your Grace.'

Sansa had heard things, terrible things, half-snatched whispers in corridors, about King Robert's bastards – how the City Watch had raided the slums, the smithies, the marketplaces, slaughtering as many as twenty children, even babes in their mothers' arms. The young man was squinting around the room, his jaw half-open. They didn't kill _all _of them, then.

There was a chilled silence before Stannis' chair scraped on the stone slabs, a raven's garish cry. He walked up to the young man, whose shoulders lowered further. 'Look at me, then.'

The young man's eyes came falteringly up to Stannis' face. He looked like he was expecting to be stabbed the death at any moment.

'So you're one of my brother's bastards.'

'So she – the lady says, m'lord.' He had a gentle voice. A commoner.

'Your _Grace_. You are addressing your king,' said the lady in a deep, firm tone.

'Your Grace,' said the young man, looking hesitatingly at Stannis. His _uncle_.

Stannis eyed him for a long moment, unflinchingly. 'I can see it. Hopefully you've your mother' wits.'

'She died in childbirth, m'lo- your Grace.'

A nerve pulsed at Stannis' temple. 'What do they call you?'

'Gendry, your Grace.'

'Gendry what?'

'Just Gendry.'

'What do you imagine I do with this boy?' Stannis kept his eyes on Gendry as he addressed the Red Lady. Sansa could see Gendry attempt to hold his gaze, as if he was trying to imagine he had anything to do with this man, but his eyes fluttered to the floor again soon enough.

'He has noble blood, your Grace,' said the Red Lady. 'It is strong.'

Gendry shifted uncomfortably.

The Red Lady looked over again. Sansa felt her voice ringing around her body, burrowing deep into her lungs. How did she do that?

'This is Lady Sansa Stark,' said Stannis. He sniffed. 'She came to me unexpectedly.'

Sansa saw Gendry's eyes widen, and he looked at her as if he knew her. Stannis continued to stare at Gendry thoughtfully, then made a clicking sound in his throat and turned abruptly to the door.

'Take him to one of the chambers in the Sea Dragon Tower.' And he stalked out, Ser Davos hastily following. The Red Lady swept her red eyes over the room and Sansa felt her skin shrink a little.

Sansa finished her meal alone with Lady Selyse, the sensation of the Red Lady's eyes burning into hers, peeling back her skull. Judging by Lady Selyse's quiet, cat-like whimpers, she wasn't the only one.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Days and nights ebb like tides. They scratch and rub together. Sometimes I can't tell what's the sea and what's me, moaning.

Dreams break up and crawl about my skull like ants, dreams of my sister and her toys falling onto her like rain, making her bleed. Dreams of a little girl biting into a lizard. Dreams of a bird in a cage going up in flames, its green feathers curling to black.

The little girl still comes, brings me food, keeps me sane, just about. Sansa. I shouldn't have thought badly of her as I did. She's stowing her food away to keep me alive. Shoving her lunch down her skirts. Grapes against her belly. Cheese sweating in her smallclothes. Gods.

I think of all that whilst the girl's rabbiting on about kings and dragons and battles again, nodding at her. She's looking at me, frowning. _Say what now_? I say. _I don't know House Clegane, it's not in my books_, she says, like she's said it once already. _No reason why you would_, I say, chewing my bread, picturing crumbs on Sansa's thighs. _Well, what sigil do you have_? she says and _I say three dogs on a yellow field. _

_I've never had a dog,_ she says, and I think, little do you know, you wee scrap. She's ahead of me though and _says why do people call you the Hound_? and I see the boy's face, his golden leer, and think, I'm not really fucking sure anymore I and say _it's just a name I've always had_ and she says _I like your real name better. It sounds like Sansa's_.

That's what's keeping me alive. Her name against mine, rubbing together like waves.


	13. Chapter 13

There was a knock on Sansa's door. She was startled to find Gendry there, looking utterly uncomfortable in a clean doublet.

'M'lady.'

'What do you want?' She looked down the corridor for any guards.

'Can I come in, m'lady?'

Sansa felt a flush of anger. Just because he was Robert's son, he thought he could swan into her chamber? 'Don't you think that's a bit improper?'

He blushed and looked at his feet. 'I'm sorry, m'lady, I don't know how I'm supposed to do things. It's just – I had to see you.'

She raised an eyebrow and folded her arms.

He looked around either side of him, and dropped his voice. 'I've been with your sister, m'lady. I thought I should say.'

Sansa's heart plunged to the floor. '_Ayra_?' she whispered.

He nodded and she felt the stones wobble beneath her.

***S*S*S*S*S*S**

Sansa sat on her bed, blinking. Gendry stood stiffly by the window, his arms folded behind his back. She couldn't quite believe it. Arya was _alive_. Alive, and with some men called the Brotherhood, and heading towards her mother and Robb in the west. It sounded like everything she'd imagined her sister would do, yet nothing that she could fathom. Gendry had practically made Arya sound like some sort of _knight_, pretending to be a boy and making for the Wall, serving Lord Tywin, rescuing them from Harrenhall, navigating thick forests in the dead of night, though she was sure from the way he glanced at his feet in the middle of a sentence that he wasn't telling her everything.

'Is – but is she alright?'

Gendry hesitated. His eyes were an icy shade of blue, like the pools at Winterfell when the sun shone on them. 'She's very brave, m'lady. Braver than near most any man I've ever met.'

Sansa suddenly felt desperately sad. Arya was there, travelling to her mother, and she was trapped again, the sea making a further barrier between her and her family.

'Did she – ever speak of me?' She looked up at Gendry, fearful of the answer.

'Ay, m'lady, she spoke of all of her brothers and sisters.' He could see that she needed more. He looked fiercely into the middle distance, as if trying to remember. 'She said you all had wolves, and that yours was called Lady and – ' he stopped suddenly, as if he'd just recalled the rest of that story – 'and that you liked dancing and songs and watching tourneys.'

Sansa's heart sagged. That sounded like a very different girl. A very young, flighty, idiot girl.

Gendry was still scrabbling for more. '- And she said you were very tall and –' he started blushing furiously – 'very pretty, m'lady.'

'You know you don't have to say that after everything you say.'

Gendry looked at his feet again. His hair was as black as raven feathers.

'The lady – Melisandre,' she said. 'How did she know to find you?'

Gendry shrugged. 'Dunno, m'lady. Didn't have much choice in the matter, mind. She came with guards and they paid the Brotherhood for me, and here I am.'

'What do you think of her?'

'She frightens me, to be honest, m'la-. To be honest.'

Sansa sat with her hands in her lap, looking at him patiently. 'Stannis will want me to marry you.'

Gendry swallowed. 'I don't think so, m'lady.'

She sighed, got up and walked to the window, opening it to feel the wind and salt on her face. Seagulls screamed. 'Yes, he will. That's why she's brought you here. You're a Baratheon, aren't you?'

'So they keep telling me. I don't quite believe it myself.' He stood next to her, facing the sea, and leant his elbows on the windowsill. 'How can I be – the son of a king?'

Sansa thought of Joffrey, although she knew the rumours about his parentage, too. 'Anyone can be the son of a king. It doesn't mean anything.' Gendry's eyes darted across to Sansa, and dashed away again when she looked at him. 'Stannis is short of heirs,' she told him. 'You're his nephew now. He needs to strengthen the line.'

She heard him swallow again, very quietly. 'Right.'

'But I'm not marrying you.'

'No. Of course, not, m'lady. I'm – just an armourer.'

'I don't care about that. I'm just –' she let her eyes trace the long line of the horizon, not quite believing that there was anything else out there apart from the end of the world, dropping off into a vast nothingness – 'No one is going to tell me who to marry. I'm not doing it.'

'Of course, m'lady,' he said, rather quietly.

They looked out to sea together for a while.

'I'm probably not supposed to be in here, am I?' he said.

She smiled at him. 'Certainly not. It is highly inappropriate for a highborn. _Or _a lowborn. _Or_ a smithy prince or whatever it is that you are.'

'I'll be going then.' He gave a very awkward bow.

She laughed. 'That's _terrible_.'

He grinned at her and went to the door, before turning back to her. 'Is it true that Stannis' daughter is half-fish?'

She pushed him out into the corridor. 'She's a _girl_. A very clever one. Though she'll be very confused about where _you_ fit into everything.'

***S*S*S*S*S*S**

There's a light, and I think, thank the gods, feels like it's been three days since I've eaten, and get up towards the bars, about to say _what time do you call this, little fish_, until I hear heavier footsteps, and shuffling, scraping along the stone. I put my back against the wall again.

A grating of metal as a cell door a little way down is opened, and a small grunt and thud. Metal again. The light fades. No water for me, then. Were it not for my two girls I'd be part-shit and piss by now, I swear it.

_Don't get too comfortable _I say, and there's a long silence and then a voice, youngish, comes back, uncertain. _Hello_? it says.

_Who are you_? I say and there's another long stretch before he says _I don't know any more_. Gods, he's only been down here for half a breath, I think, and _say what the hells does that mean_?

The sea-damp drips, slow, on the stone. I try again. _Where have you come in from_? _King's Landing, once_, he says. Slowly I ask him questions, just glad to have another man to talk to, however damned craven, and I get out of him his name, and his trade. He's made armour for me, most like, maybe even his master made my helm. We talk of the city a bit, and the gambling hovels and the whorehouses, though he goes all quiet at that, green boy.

_What are you in for_? I say and he says, _I don't bloody know_. _One moment I'm_ – _and then – and she_ - and he stops. _There's darkness here_, he says, and his boot thuds against the bars.

The stone collects the drips.

***S*S*S*S*S*S**

Sansa had been utterly wrong about Gendry, and what they planned to do with him. She'd thought she would see him at dinner – after all, he was Stannis' only nephew – but there was no sign of him, and when she asked, Stannis gave her a look like a shard of slate and she daredn't say another word. Something seemed very amiss.

All day and night, she felt the presence of the Red Lady everywhere, though she hardly ever saw her. It was as if the black castle was now imbued with dark red shadows, whispering to her.

As she made her way back to her own chamber after visiting Shireen for their now nightly read together, the Red Lady came round a corner towards her. Sansa was stilled, rooted to the spot by something she could not quite understand.

The Red Lady's eyes burned into hers. 'You have a sister.'

'Yes.' Sansa felt the weight of the silence where she should have said 'my lady.'

The Red Lady's eyes widened. 'She had a darkness in her.' Sansa felt drawn into her gaze, boiling pools of fire. 'I do not think you have it so much. But perhaps a little.' She was almost talking to herself, and Sansa felt herself drift off, surrounded by weirwoods and blood.

When she blinked again, the Red Lady was disappearing the way she'd come, her cloak behind her like the tail of a dragon.

***S*S*S*S*S*S**

Another night of dreaming – mer-girls beating my head with their long tails and laughing strange, clicking laughs, and men stroking beards of green fire.

_Time to see the king_, I hear.

Two guards outside the bars, with torches. Looking at me.


	14. Chapter 14

The guards get me up, telling me I smell worse than a sheepyard full of shit and I think, what, am I going to smell of fucking rosewater after being down here, you cunts? and I think of ripping their helms off and filling them with their entrails, but I keep my head, as maybe seeing the king means seeing if Sansa's alright too.

The king. So many bloody kings, more than the fingers on one hand. And there's that dragongirl across the sea and all. Everybody wants to be a fucking king, when all it ever gets them is a landful of trouble and people wanting to stick their spears down your throats. Tell me one king in the old books who had a full, warfree life, died happy in his bed, surrounded by all his family who have all through some miracle survived themselves and not been beheaded, hostaged, or burned at a fucking stake. It's madness, the lot of it, and for what? Glory? What glory do you get from sitting your arse on a chair full of spikes, more spikes digging into your temples?

They drag me past the other cell, and I squint a quick look. There's nowt but a boy in there, close up against the bars, goggling at me. He sort of nods but I don't nod back. Not much point in making friends down here – it's not like either of us have happy ends in store, most like.

_Take these fucking irons off me then_, I say to the guards, but they just dig their hands into my back and push me on. I can't hardly stand up straight – should have walked around more, but I couldn't take three steps before having to turn around again. My legs are like calf's foot jelly, and there are staircases after staircases before we run smack into the bearded one, the one whose sons burned on Stannis' ships.

He wrinkles his nose up. _Seven hells, you're not taking him to the king like that are you_? he says. The guards shuffle their feet. He looks at me and I see just a jot of something kind in there, I think, and he says _give him a bloody bath, the king wants to question him, not put him out to pasture_.

They chuck me in a room with a window then, and the light's like something from a childhood memory, innocent and full of breath. The chains are taken off me, first time in – what, seven? eight? – days, and the skin's peeling, and has a gleam to it. They fucking stand at the door watching me while I undress, my hands bloody shaking, and I say _what, this your sort of thing, is it_? but after that I don't care too much and I sink into that shallow tepid bath like it's a hot spring pool and I close my eyes and dream of those mer-girls, and one mer-girl has eyes blue as cave-sapphires and hair down her back that shines like a spun sunset and for a moment I've died a happy man.

And then they haul me up again and I'm given new clothes, my hands chained behind me again, and I'm yanked over to the main keep and in front one of the men who would be king.

Stannis is standing there, arms folded behind his back. I'd swear some master sculptor had just fast-chiselled him out of rock and dumped him there. His man, the bearded one, Davos it is, is behind him, arms folded, and there's a woman too, the like of which I've not seen before. She looks like she'd bloody have your cock out as soon as look at you, and dressed all in red. Eyes red, hair red, mouth red. A strange red, a red that has some darkness in it somewhere. More red than blood. I think, I wonder what you look like without that cloak on, and I swear I hear a voice in my head say _there are men who have thought that and not lived the night_, and I look at her and her eyes are on me, making my bones scorch.

Sansa's nowhere. Wishful thinking, there.

So he sits down and I stay standing, one of my legs giving a bit, and he and Davos start on their questions. How many ships left, how many soldiers. The state of the Keep, the escarpments. How much wildfire. Who fled the city, what families joined the Tyrells and the Lannisters. What they're doing about the dragongirl. I answer some – I don't care much what happens to King's Landing now that I'm gone, but I've no allegiance to this man either, so I keep some back. He tries to get out of me again why I left Joffrey, and the boy's parentage. I say _if Jaime is his father, better him than your brother. At least Lannister could piss straight_.

Stannis sits back, his chin on his hand. _So Clegane, you've enjoyed my dungeons, I take it. Perhaps you'd rather be down there than up here_? I shrug and say, _no worse than sleeping off a hangover in a stable_ and he frowns and I think, fuck you, king. _I've not much more use for you_, _I think_, he says.

The red one – she's been standing the whole time, her lips puckered up like she's ready for a fat one on the mouth – steps forward, right up to me, sticks her chin up in the air, stares. _He is very strong, this one, my king_. The underside of her eyes comes up. _Tell me,_ she says, _how is it you have managed to last in the dungeon this whole time on just water_?

I lean down to her, keep my voice low, the voice I use for the whores when I'm trying to be gentle. _I don't die easily_, I say.

Her eyes go wide, more red, and then she turns, quick, to her man, whose cock I bet she gives a good rubbing to every night. _I can help you get what you want, my king_, she says.

I'm dragged out of the room after her, Davos whispering urgently to Stannis, and I think, this probably won't be good.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Sansa was walking down the corridor after being out in the Gardens in the morning. There had still been no further sign of Gendry, and her heart was sinking fast. Somehow, she felt that it was _her_ responsibility to keep him safe – after all, he had travelled with Arya – and somehow, she had failed him.

Ser Davos came round a corner, shaking his head. He almost walked straight into Sansa, before pulling up abruptly. 'My apologies, m'lady. My head was somewhere else.'

He went to move on when Sansa put a hand on his arm. 'Ser Davos – may I ask you something?'

'Ay, m'lady, of course.'

She pulled him to one side and sat him down on a stone sill. 'I wanted to know – what has happened to Gendry? I thought – I thought perhaps his Grace would want to use him, being his nephew, that he would be useful somehow.'

Ser Davos badly tried to conceal a sigh. 'I would have thought so too, in truth, m'lady, but –' he gave a rueful, dark smile –'there are many minds at work in this castle, and some have different opinions to mine.'

Sansa's voice dropped. 'You mean _her_, don't you? The Lady Melisandre.'

He leant in. 'I didn't tell you that. This is not your business, Lady Sansa. You don't need to worry about it.'

'I do. Gendry knew my little sister, he's been with her, he helped her stay alive. He – I owe him a debt.'

Ser Davos looked rather sad then. 'You're very gracious, m'lady,' he said, his voice reassuring. 'The king is lucky to have you here.'

He got up to go, but Sansa clung onto his arm.

'Ser Davos – please – tell me what's happening with Sandor Clegane? He's done nothing wrong. Why is he still down in the cells?' As she spoke, she caught the faintest widening of his eyes, and her breath hitched. 'He _is_ still down there, isn't he?' Ser Davos didn't answer. 'Please, ser, if you know something –' she suddenly felt a terrible fear –'he's saved my life, more than once, and he's a good man, I promise you. I know he seems horrible, but he didn't kill your sons, he hates fire, it scares him more than anything I think, truly, he only did what he was ordered to do, and he always hated it. He wanted to be better. He could be of use to Stannis, I swear it, he's the strongest of anyone, and he can lead men –'

Her eyes began to sting. She felt sure that he was being led to the execution block right now.

Ser Davos patted her arm. 'Alright, alright, m'lady, don't fret yourself. I'll –' he looked at her, slightly unconvinced at himself. 'I'll see what I can do.'

*S*S*S*S*S*S

Darkness.

There's fucking darkness in this one, darker than anything I've ever seen, darker than the heart of fire, which is black, not white as people say.

I'm strapped to a bench, chains around my waist and my ankles, my hands above my head. The room's got candles burning, hundreds of them, and a smell like overripe summer and death. The red bitch is standing over me with a small clay bowl. I can't see what's in it. I talk to her, try and get a rise out her, but she's not listening, or she just doesn't bloody care, just watching me, a smile fire-curling at the corner of her mouth. I can see that she isn't really interested in getting more answers out of me. I'm just her sport.

She puts her hand on me and under my shirt and her skin's as hot as if it has been held over a stove and I say _seven hells woman, if that's what you want you'd be better unchain at least some of me_ and she just smiles a little more and brings her fucking hand down to my breeches and I can't help my cock rising up a bit and I think, now is not the fucking time you bastard, and I wish to the gods I'd never tried to imagine what was under her fucking cloak.

And then she puts her fingers in the bowl and picks something out, and it's small, black, and it bloody moves and I twist and try to wrench myself free then. She puts it on my chest, and another on my neck, and another right on my fucking cock. I can feel them, tiny teeth, sucking on me.

And she picks up a small torch and holds it near my skin over my chest and says _you don't like fire, do you, Clegane_? and I say _who the fuck likes fire when it's that fucking close?_ She says, absently, like she's daydreaming about something, _it's said that if they feel fire, leeches take more blood_, and I say _for the gods' sakes_ and she says _Gods? There is only one true God in this room and he is the Lord of Light_.

_Fuck your Lord of Light_, I say, feeling those leeches burrow in, bleeding me. _Go on, fuck him, then turn around and take him that way and all and see how high his flaming fucking sword will go _and her smile goes then.

Davos is suddenly in the room. _Stop this madness_, he says, and she says _what madness, pray, Ser Davos_? He says, _take those off him, for the gods' sakes_. And he spits, _your taste for burning is – it's unnatural_. _You've a wickedness in you, gods damn you_. She doesn't say anything else, just holds the flame near my neck, near my burns, and I'm doing everything I can not to scream 'til the walls collapse, and Davos curses and leaves the room.

My skin cools again, and she tugs the leeches off me, and the sting is worse than anything. Sweet gods, my cock. She walks to a bowl on a stand, and tosses a candle in with the leeches. They hiss. Her back's to me but I hear her breath catch like it's been torn.

_If you mean to kill me, woman, then bloody well get on with it_, I say.

_I'm not trying to kill you, Clegane. That would be very dull. I just want to hurt you,_ she says, coming back to me, and my blood chills. She leans in close and I can feel her breath on me, cloves and pine oil and wine. _What is it that you can't live without_, she whispers slowly, a nest of vipers. I stay stiff, not trying to give anything away, my mind racing, thinking what will she take – my sword hand, my tongue, my cock? Then my cheek is cold again as she leans away and puts a hand on my chest. _Of course_, she says simply. _It's her_.

My mouth goes dry and I get a rage in me like a fast-burning cauldron. _You hurt her and I swear, you scarlet fucking whore, even if I'm dead I'll come for you_, I say, pulling at my irons again.

She removes her hand and stands over me, smiling, watching me wrestle. _You want to look upon her again_, she says and I think, she knows me, she can see into my fucking soul, and I think of Sansa and her amber hair and her black hair and the tiny dust of freckles on her nose and her cheek against my chest and I want my ribs to split open.

_You fucking touch her_, I say again and she walks away from me, to a corner and I hear a small, high clink of bottles, like raindrops.

_I can't hurt her_, she says, coming back. _That would be a defiance of my king. But you – _and she takes something out of her hand - _you will not look on her again_. And she is holding a tiny bottle, half the size of her little finger, and she holds my cheek and tips it over, and it's as if there's a snake in each of my eyes, burrowing its way in, tongues and hissing and scales and burning and death and everything goes black and I hear her say, _for the night is dark, and full of terrors_, her voice like a low funeral bell.


End file.
